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A slender, rangy elf stands near the window, his shaven head raised to catch the sun's rays. Coarsely woven robes shroud his figure, tattered garments more fit for a beggar than an agent of the Pathfinders. Badly scarred and covered with faded tattoos, the elf's hostile expression carries a hint of madness, the distracted look of one who even now hears the desert's cruel spirits whispering in his mind.
"Bow and snivel and whine?" Aconite the Anchorite whispers hoarsely. "The Dawnflower has shown secrets to Her favored ones... I've seen them, hidden amid the sands." Wheeling suddenly, the elven fanatic's pale eyes glare accusingly at a young Pathfinder who had the temerity to snicker at his overwrought display. "You may smirk, but you have not seen! While the ignorant scorn the power of the gods, they have not read the ancient inscriptions, they have not fought the spirits of the haboob! Even the awesome might of the Ruby Prince is as naught before the power of the gods themselves!"
Reaching unsteadily for a cup of sekanjabin, the battered anchorite staggers from the chamber, looking around fearfully lest the wasteland's spirits return to torment him further.
